


let me see the parts with the real deep scars

by janie_tangerine



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: (AS IF HE WOULDN'T), (I blame tumblr in ALL THE WORST WAYS TBH), Ableism (past/on C's part), Amputation, Brienne is the Best, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fisting, Healing Sex, Hurt/Comfort, I Blame Tumblr, Implied Cersei Lannister/Jaime Lannister, Jaime Lannister Has Issues, Oral Sex, Past Abuse, Past Cersei Lannister/Jaime Lannister, Past Relationship(s), Physical Disability, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Post - A Dance With Dragons, Self-Esteem Issues, Spitefic, The Author Regrets Nothing, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Vaginal Fisting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-31
Updated: 2018-10-31
Packaged: 2019-08-11 11:38:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16474841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/janie_tangerine/pseuds/janie_tangerine
Summary: It’s probably a good thing that she drank half of that wine, because it loosens her tongue enough to actually ask for it without overthinking it first.“And what if I wanted you to do something with it?”“Wait, what?” He asks her, suddenly looking very confused. She reaches down, wraps her hand around his elbow, drags his arm towards her.“Well, you did — pleasure me with your left more times than I can count, didn’t you?”“So what?”She looks down at his stump, then at him. “So use this instead.”Or: in which Jaime hasissuesconcerning his maimed hand. Brienne doesn't.





	let me see the parts with the real deep scars

**Author's Note:**

> So, this was _not_ a thing that was supposed to happen or in my plans or *anything*, but I would like to dedicate this fic that I might have spite-written in three hours to all the amazingly and delightful anons on tumblr (if it was more than one person, otherwise it's all for the single anon who then proceeded to move on here as well  <333) who in these previous four days or so have seen fit to lose their shit over a *properly tagged* meta on the subject of Jaime's issues with his disabilty where I dared reference the quotes in the beginning of this fic and then proceeded to a) complain about my tastes in characters that I made clear since always, b) leave progressively worse anon messages in my inbox on a fairly triggering topic I said I wasn't willing to discuss, c) force me to close anon because they were making me feel sick for real. Remember that GRRM wrote AFFC, _I_ certainly did not. :D and since you care so much that you actually looked up my writing as well, I hope you enjoy this!  <333
> 
> For everyone else: I hope you enjoy non-horror-related Halloween porn that I wasn't planning to write but happened anyway ;)
> 
> As usual: they belong to GRRM and not to me (sadly because they'd have done the deed already), the title is from Brian Fallon, and I'll saunter back downwards to do stuff I was actually supposed to do.

 

> Her own twin interrupted her musings. “Would Your Grace honor her white knight with a dance?"  
>    
>  She gave him a withering look.  
>    
>  "And have you fumbling at me with that stump? No. I will let you fill my wine cup for me, though. If you think you can manage it without spilling.”  
>    
>  “A cripple like me? Not likely.” He moved away and made another circuit of the hall. She had to fill her own cup.  
>    
>  \- Cersei III,  _A Feast For Crows_
> 
>  
> 
> “Sister …”  
>    
>  “Get out, I said. I am sick of looking at that ugly stump of yours. Get out!” To speed him on his way, she heaved her wine cup at his head. She missed, but Jaime took the hint **.  
> **   
>  \- Jaime II,  _A Feast For Crows_  
>    
> 

> Jaime felt his anger rising. “True, Loras does not leer at your teats the way Ser Osmund does, but I hardly think—”   
>    
>  “Think about this.” Cersei slapped his face.  
>    
>  \- Jaime III,  _A Feast For Crows_

 

 

> Brienne remembered her fight with Jaime Lannister in the woods. It had been all that she could do to keep his blade at bay. He was weak from his imprisonment, and chained at the wrists. No knight in the Seven Kingdoms could have stood against him at his full strength, with no chains to hamper him. Jaime had done many wicked things, but the man could fight!  _His maiming had been monstrously cruel. It was one thing to slay a lion, another to hack his paw off and leave him broken and bewildered_.
> 
> Suddenly the common room was too loud to endure a moment longer. She muttered her good-nights and took herself up to bed.  
>    
>  \- Brienne I,  _A Feast For Crows_

 

 

> He was better than Pyg, but he had only a short throwing spear, and she had a Valyrian steel blade. Oathkeeper was alive in her hands. She had never been so quick. The blade became a grey blur. He wounded her in the shoulder as she came at him, but she slashed off his ear and half his cheek, hacked the head off his spear, and put a foot of rippled steel into his belly through the links of the chain mail byrnie he was wearing. Timeon was still trying to fight as she pulled her blade from him, its fullers running red with blood. He clawed at his belt and came up with a dagger, so Brienne cut his hand off.  _That one was for Jaime_.   
>    
>  “Mother have mercy,” the Dornishman gasped, the blood bubbling from his mouth and spurting from his wrist. “Finish it. Send me back to Dorne, you bloody bitch."  
>    
>  She did.  
>    
>  &

> "I have no spade.”  
>    
>  "You have two hands.” _One more than you left Jaime._  
>    
>  “Why bother? Leave them for the crows.”  
>    
>  \- Brienne IV,  _A Feast For Crows_

 

****

 

Brienne _doesn’t_ let on that she noticed how Jaime tried to keep his right arm away from her at all times since the first time they shared a bed.

Mostly, because _then_ she had thought that maybe she was seeing things, or overthinking it — surely she _had_ been guilty of that specifically.

Still, it’s been three moons. They shared a bed (and a bedroll, and a tent, and the hard soil in the frozen Northern woods) more than just once, enough for her to notice _patterns_ , and probably he did notice some, too.

She doesn’t know what patterns he might have noticed when it comes to her, even if she can suspect.

What she knows, though, is that he _always_ keeps that arm away from her or at most puts it around her waist at times, but he doesn’t touch her with it, he doesn’t even let it brush against her skin, and fine, they found out they actually liked it better if she was on top because he said it was uncomfortable to hold himself up without a hand (even if that sounded sort of forced and she had wondered, _was it an excuse_ ), but still, since then he’s always carefully tried to keep it out of the way.

Once, she decides to see if it’s a chance or not (she doubts it) and makes to reach for it as if she hadn’t thought about it. He goes rigid, flinches and moves it out of the way.

She leans down, kisses him and doesn’t do it again, and he forgets about it soon enough.

Still, that was a confirm if she ever had any and — she doesn’t like it.

She _doesn’t_ like it, at all.

Fact is — he has no issues with touching or kissing the scar on her face

( _or the one around her neck_ )

nor with running his tongue along both or _any_ other scar she has, and he has no issue with letting her do the same everywhere else except _there_ , but when it comes to his damned hand (or lack thereof) it’s not the same and… it should be.

It’s — not right, she thinks. It’s _not_ , and not just because it was unfair that it was taken from him in such a way, but — because _it doesn’t matter_? He didn’t need the hand to jump into that bear pit

( _or come back for her_ )

nor he needed it to take the right decisions, or keep his vows, or give her Stark’s sword, or turn his cloak and come with her to look for Sansa and North after, nor to free his brother nor to — well, do _anything_ he’s done until now.

Including punching Ronnet Connington for her, which he _has_ told her, and she’s sure he will never tell a soul that she might have cried when he told her, but still — he _didn’t_ need the right hand for that. And it’s not preventing him to be the knight he always was meant to be these days, and she hates that he can’t see it.

And fine, she _should_ probably tell him what she was thinking when she struck down both Timeon and Shagwell, but she’s — somewhat not proud of _how_ she did it (not the act itself, not _that_ ), and she doesn’t really feel that it was very knightly to stab that fool until she felt like retching. Considering that he looks at her like she’s some kind of paragon of honor these days (and for as much as she tries, she doesn’t think she _is_ ), she’d rather let him believe that. Anyway, maybe if she did he’d stop thinking she doesn’t want his right arm near her.

Maybe.

She doesn’t know, but what she _does_ know is that it feels wrong and she doesn’t like _that_ nor that every time the topic comes up (or every time he accidentally brushes his naked stump against her _clothed_ arm) he looks like he’s disgusted with himself.

And she’s going to get to the bottom of this, she decides — maybe she can’t even believe her luck or that he _really_ wants her back or that he pretty much left his sister behind to go with _her_ and honor their vows, and so a part of her says to _not push_ lest he decides he got everything wrong, but a larger part of her says that she doesn’t want to see him unhappy, and if there’s anything she can do about it —

She will.

——

She plans it, admittedly. She finds some wine that was brought over by a few black brothers when they fled the Wall, waits for one evening where they aren’t on patrol and they aren’t needed, she tells Lady Sansa she’ll need it free along with the next morning and Sansa smiles knowingly as she gives her absolute freedom lest white walkers show up in the yard, then she finds Jaime and tells him that it’s cold and she’s been told that this specific wine is great at warming someone in a short time.

“… Wench, did _anything_ happen to you in the last six hours or what?” He asks, but he seems amused, not disappointed.

“No, why?”

“The last thing one would assume of you was that you would be proposing to _get drunk_.”

She knows she’s blushing furiously. “Well, you _did_ say I should live a little. We aren’t on duty this evening and we won’t be in the morning, we are in the castle so we don’t need to defend ourselves, the end might or might not be night… why not?” She knows she sounds awkward and embarrassed and not as smooth as she would like to, but then he grins, genuinely, and her heart skips a damn beat as every damned time he directs _that_ smile at her.

“You know what,” he says, “fine. Sounds great. Let’s get drunk.”

She smiles back at him and hopes that this isn’t going to backfire.

——

So: Brienne doesn’t really _drink_ , but the gods gave her the build she has, which apparently means she can hold her drink fairly well even if she’s not adjusted to having it often, which means that while they evenly shared the bottle, by the time it’s thrown on the ground and it’s completely empty, she’s merely tipsy while he’s… well, not _drunk_ , but definitely more than her, and it’s a good look on him because his cheeks flush a healthy dark pink under his beard and he’s laughing more than usual as they kiss, their mouths both tasting like the nutmeg that wine was spiced with, and —

All right. She _planned_ this. She has to make it look as if she’s not thinking about it. She lets her tongue run along his bottom lip as they lean fully on the bed, and she swallows a moan as she moves her left hand over where his right should have been.

As predicted, he goes rigid at once, but when he tries to move away, she keeps her grip steady and doesn’t let him.

“Brienne —” He starts, but she doesn’t let him move it away.

“I don’t mind,” she says, looking at him even if he’s kind of not meeting her eyes. Never mind that. “I _really_ don’t mind.”

“You don’t have to lie, you know.”

… What. He sounds _bitter_ now, and — ah, to the seven hells with it. She moves her other hand to his face, turning it so that he’s forced to look up at her.

“Jaime Lannister, _look at me_ and tell me I’m not telling the truth when I tell you that _I cannot care less_ about it.” She holds his stare, and she doesn’t let it waver for however long he looks back up at her before his mouth goes from a thin line to a barely-there smile, which is _not_ his usual smirk. Not at all.

“Shit,” he says, “you always were the worst liar.”

“But — why?” She asks, letting her thumb run across his cheek. “If it makes _you_ uncomfortable I won’t touch it, but if you think it would make _me_ … it doesn’t. I swear it doesn’t.”

He says nothing for a long, _long_ moment.

Then —

“Well, it makes me uncomfortable that it’s _there_ ,” he admits, “but that’s not — I mean, I have to live with it. It’s not going to go away. And I hate that — well. You know. I kind of needed that hand. But — Brienne, hells, don’t you get it?”

“Don’t I get _what_?” She presses.

“It’s ugly,” he blurts, and he’s not looking at her again. “And I understand it most likely feels disgusting, and I don’t want to make _this_ uncomfortable —”

Fine.

So maybe it wasn’t the right reaction.

But the moment he says it, she bursts out laughing, unable to keep it in, and only reels it in when he notices that he might take it as if she’s making fun of him. “I’m sorry,” she says at once, “I — I swear I am not laughing _at_ you, but — Jaime, it’s _ugly_?” She asks.

“It is —”

“Jaime, have you forgotten _who_ you’re talking to?”

His eyes seem to turn a warmer shade of green as his mouth thins again. “Brienne, if _other people_ decided that you are or if you aren’t, well, _beautiful_ or whatever, I thought it was obvious I couldn’t give a single — _oh_.” He stops mid-sentence, immediately realizing what she was implying.

She shakes her head, taking her hand from his wrist to bring it to his face so she has _both_ of them around it. “Jaime, _honestly_ , do you really think _I_ would care for _that,_ of all people? And for that matter, it’s not… that.”

“It’s _not_?”

“It’s a damned battle wound and it was horribly unfair they’d do it to you without reason in the first place,” she says, still looking at him. “I mean, it’s not as if my face looks any better than that, but _you_ don’t think it’s ugly now, do you? Well, more than usual.”

“I wouldn’t have cared in the first place,” he says, “and you know I like your face the exact way it is.”

“Then why wouldn’t I like your _arm_ the exact same way it is?”

He opens his mouth, then closes it, then repeats the process all over again before he lets out the most self-deprecating laugh she’s heard from him in the entire time they’ve known each other. “I don’t know,” he says, “I just… didn’t think about it.”

She says nothing, sensing that he has more to say.

“And — after you left, I — well. I said things with Cersei went… however they did.”

Oh, so _that_ was the crux of it.

Somehow she’s not surprised. She moves her right hand down, her fingers threading with his left.

“And _how_ did they go?” She asks.

He shrugs. “Well, just before I gave you that sword she tried to, er, _propose_ while we were in the White Tower, I told her no, and she left saying I was a useless cripple, but nothing that I knew. She never made a mystery that she thought it was ugly — I might have asked her to dance at some point and she said that at most I could pour her some wine if I could manage to not spill it.” He takes a breath, and Brienne says nothing, feeling it’s _not_ the worst as much as she wishes it would be. “And more than once… well, we argued, she might have backhanded me a few times while she was at it and once it ended with her glass of wine thrown my way while she told me to get _this_ out of her sight, and — I mean, she was supposed to be my _other half_ or whatever, which I _figured_ would mean that she’d want me regardless, and _that_ was how it went, excuse me if I figured I wouldn’t inflict it on you.”

Brienne opens her mouth, then closes it at once because what she was about to say would have been _nothing_ anyone would imagine she was capable of saying given her reputation. She — she thought she had felt rage on his behalf when she killed those two monsters, she had thought she had felt some just after he lost the hand, but both times it was probably mixed with _her_ own feelings about what was happening to _her,_ too. Now they’re not, and she thinks that if his sister was here she’d do something incredibly stupid, or _say_ something equally stupid, and then she looks down at how his naked wrist is resting on the bed and he’s obviously forcing himself to not hide it behind the pillow, and he sounded just so dejected before, as if the fact that it only took losing that hand for his supposed _other half_ to toss him away just like _that_ was what hurt him most about this entire deal, not counting the fact that _he lost his sword hand_ —

“I shouldn’t have told you,” he says a moment later, sounding _resigned_ , “should I?”

“Wait, _no_ —”

“It’s fine,” he says, and now he’s smiling the saddest smile she’s ever seen on him, “I know it sounds pathetic and I shouldn’t care half as much, but —”

“I _asked_ ,” she immediately stops him, “and no, I was speechless merely because — I just — she had no right,” she says, knowing that it’s not adequate at all. He forces himself to lean up and move closer.

“Maybe,” he says, “but then again I guess at least it did open my eyes on a few things. Still, you don’t _have_ to do anything with it. Really.”

She glances down at his stump again, and —

Maybe it’s that she’s not wholly sober, maybe it’s that she’s _angry_ but she never was good at words nor at putting her feelings into nice, fancy sentences because it’s not as if she ever thought she would have anyone to tell nice, fancy declarations to and she doesn’t know how to tell him that she doesn’t care and more than that, she wants _him_ , all of him, not just what parts are somehow convenient, even if it sounds easy in her head.

Maybe it’s that she was always better at deeds than words.

But as she stares at the scarred flesh covering his bone and which might never turn white and that she has been _closely_ acquainted with when they were tied to each other, she thinks, _what if_ —

 _What if_ , indeed.

It’s probably a good thing that she drank half of that wine, because it loosens her tongue enough to actually ask for it without overthinking it first.

“And what if I wanted _you_ to do something with it?”

“Wait, what?” He asks her, suddenly looking very confused. She reaches down, wraps her hand around his elbow, drags his arm towards her.

“Well, you did — pleasure me with your _left_ more times than I can count, didn’t you?”

“So what?”

She looks down at his stump, then at him. “So use _this_ instead.”

For a long, _long_ moment, he stares at her in utter speechlessness, and she wishes _this_ wasn’t how she managed to make him such.

“You want me to —” He finally says, unable to finish it.

“Yes,” she says at once.

“Brienne, maybe we really did drink too much —”

“Jaime, I’m somewhat tipsy, but I’m nowhere near drunk. And I _want_ you to.”

“You don’t _have_ —”

“I don’t _have_ to do anything,” she interrupts him, “I _know_ , and since I cannot care less for it but _you_ obviously do, and it costs me nothing, and there is no way in the seven hells I want it out of my sight, maybe _this_ would convince you.”

He looks at her, for a long, long moment. “Shit,” he says, “you’re not — you’re serious.”

In reply, she stands up from the bed, kicks off her shoes and breeches, thankful for the fire going on, and then takes off her shirt, too, before moving back on the bed, her knees around his still fully clothed thighs. “I’m _entirely_ serious,” she says, and she’s so _angry_ on his behalf that she’s completely forgotten that maybe she should be embarrassed about this.

She’s _not_.

She looks down at him, trying to convey the message, and she can pinpoint the exact moment he realizes she’s wholly, entirely, absolutely convinced of this because his eyes go from incredulous to _moved_ , and a moment later he’s dragged her down and kissed her with a strength that surprises her for a moment, but she immediately kisses him back, her hands going to his face and her tongue finding his as she feels his left hand tremble as it grasps her back. She doesn’t know for how long they kiss, but when they move away he’s looking up at her in a way she had never dreamed _anyone_ would, let alone a man she _wanted_ in her bed, and when he nods towards her groin she’s quick to move so that she’s sitting on his face — he buries it inside her legs a moment later, his tongue licking at her cunt almost hungrily, her hands going to his hair and keeping him _there_.

He doesn’t move his hands from her back as he kisses her on her cunt and around it before sucking the soft, warm flesh around it, and she moans as his tongue slips inside her and he works her open, his beard rasping against her skin in a way that makes her feel even more turned on — she runs her fingers through his hair, at the back of his neck, holding him closer, thinking about it.

He would have to go slow, she thinks as she moans his name. He would have to open her up carefully and wait until she took in _all_ of him, at least enough to fuck her the way he usually does with his fingers, and she thinks about his wrist (or what’s left of it) completely disappearing inside her or how those rough scars would feel inside her, and —

She feels herself getting actually excited at the prospect, which added to how intently he’s licking at her cunt is definitely going to make her peak soon, but — she figures that it would be best, if then she has to take in his entire wrist, but —

 _Well_.

For the first time she’s glad that she’s not _tiny_ or soft or helpless because with _everything_ she had to take in her entire life, sure as the seven hells his damned wrist won’t be the hardest nor the most distressing. She moans his name, encouraging him to go on, and he sucks at her clit before his tongue licks all over her cunt, and she can feel that she’s getting wet, _very_ wet, and she does nothing to stop him until she feels herself go over the edge — she _knows_ that in a moment his face will be sticky and when it happens and he moves away to breathe she immediately leans down to kiss him, moaning into his mouth when he slips a couple of fingers of his left hand inside her.

She’s not surprised when it happens without a hitch, of course — she’s still so turned on she could go ahead for the entire night and honestly, she wants to tell him that even if she _did_ care about that stump it would be nothing in comparison to how thankful she is to him for having made her feel like someone worth looking at and making love to and _desirable_ , when she thought no one ever would or would care to.

She says his name over and over as he slips two, three fingers inside her, crooking them the way he _knows_ will bring her off, still as they kiss on and off, and by the time she’s rolled on her back and he has three of them deep inside her she’s clenching around him, and peaking _again_ , and she sees his right arm hovering in the vicinity of her breast, and since she’s not japing about _any_ of this she reaches out and brings it to rest just under it. He makes a noise that she doesn’t even know how to describe before he leans down and kisses her again, his hand still sliding in and out.

“Fuck,” he pants against her mouth, “ _how_ is it that you want this so much?”

After all, it’s _painfully_ obvious that she wants this.

She should probably just say is straight. “Jaime, I — I don’t just —” She shakes her head, breathing out as his hand slips out of her, leaving her stretched and _open_ , “I’ve wanted you since the bear pit, if not before without realizing it. You _did_ save my life with _that_ , or without your hand, however you like. Do you think — I wouldn’t want _that_ , too? And — if you really want to know, I was thinking about it, before.”

“What, when —”

“When it was just your mouth. I — I _want_ it, all right? Gods, I _love_ you,” she says, even if she’s only told him a handful of times and it always sounds ridiculous, but the way his eyes light up when she says it, well, it makes that worth it. “I don’t… love you, but just without your right arm.”

She reaches out, grasps his right wrist and puts it _right_ above her cunt where she’s wet with her own fluids, and _plenty_ of them, feeling the rough scar tissue of his stump over her soft, sensitive flesh, and he groans at that, breathing heavily. “I swear I want it. _Do it_ , I’m ready, I think.”

He turns his wrist over in the mess of fluids on her groin, his throat working as if he’s breathing faster and _faster_ , staring down at it as if he can’t believe she actually is allowing him to.

She opens up her legs wider.

He swallows, nods as he comes closer and uses his left hand to open her up wider again, placing his stump right on the edge. His cheeks flush darker.

“Brienne —”

“If you don’t do it _I_ will,” she says, trying to sound as firm as possible as she relaxes and takes deep, deep breaths.

All right. He nods, sliding it forward, just a bit, and — all right, it’s larger than two or three fingers at once, of course, but not _that_ much. When he has the top just right past her entrance, she thinks it’s _absolutely_ doable, especially when the moment he slides it in just a bit forward she can’t hold back a moan and she feels her cunt getting even more wet. He’s still looking down at her with dazed, wide green eyes, his lips parted as he gently slides it even further.

“It — it feels good,” she tells him before he can get any wrong ideas.

“It does?” He asks, sounding skeptical, as his left hand gently grasps at her hair while she sits up just a bit straighter and he slides in further. His wrist is shaking.

“Yes,” she moans. “It’s — it’s rough, but in a _good_ way. The same way your fingers are.”

“Maybe I should stop here —”

“No,” she shakes her head. “No, I want it _all_. If it hurts I will stop you, but it doesn’t for now. Really.”

She probably sounded convincing, because then he breathes in again and pushes his stump _fully_ inside her, still going slow, and even if it’s still trembling when it’s buried inside her right where his fingers or his cock usually would be it doesn’t matter because it feels _good_.

It’s _different_ , all right, but — the rough, coarse scar tissue against her sensitive skin makes her moan and clench around him, and he slid in so easily, for a moment she thinks _it feels like I was made for it_ , and maybe she _was_ , but she doesn’t say that — rather she catches her breath, opens her eyes, looks up into his, moves a hand behind his neck.

“Jaime, I didn’t — take you for someone who — does things halfway.”

“I _don’t_ ,” he immediately replies, faking offense, but then he sees what she’s aiming at.

“Then _do it_ ,” she urges him, spreading her legs just a bit wider, and then he nods as he finally, _finally_ moves it _forward_ , searching for the spots that never fail to make her peak when it’s his fingers or his cock, but now it’s different because she feels like he’s _everywhere_ inside her and she likes how his scars feel right _there_ , and he probably can see how she’s enjoying it by the fact that she can’t stop moaning or saying his name, but then she forces herself to talk because he has to _know_ , seven hells.

“Don’t stop,” she urges him.

“Is it —”

“Jaime, it’s — you don’t — it’s like I can feel you all over, it’s _good_ ,” she blurts, hoping he gets the gist. “And it’s rough, but in the good way. _Please_ —”

He pushes, again, then pulls back and pushes in _again_ with a bit more strength, and _yes_ , yes, that’s exactly how she wants him to do it — she nods, brings her arms behind his back and curls her fingers around it. “Yes,” she says, “yes, _like that_.”

“If it’s too much —”

“No,” she says, “it’s not, it _couldn’t_ be —” And then she thinks she gets it. “ _You_ couldn’t be.”

He makes a sound that she doesn’t know how to describe before he finally loses some of that control and moves a bit faster — she’s not going to break and he should know, but it’s still almost sweet that he’s this worried, and she doesn’t want him to be. She reaches up, grasping at his hair again, pulling him in for another kiss as his left hand goes around her her neck. She moans into his mouth while he finally, _properly_ starts fucking her with it — he’s still not letting himself go completely, but more than before, and from the way he’s looking down at her she knows it’s working.

“How does _that_ feel,” she asks, feeling suddenly bolder than usual.

“It’s —” He starts, shakes his head. “I can’t — you’re so tight,” he says, “but it’s the _good_ kind of, and I didn’t think I could —”

“Jaime, you _can_ ,” she says, as steadily as she can while she’s feeling like she _will_ absolutely peak just from that, moving her hands to his face all over again, running her fingers over his beard, which is also definitely sticky and kind of a mess, same as the bed is, but it doesn’t matter at all. He’s also looking at her like he needs just the last push, and if a part of her wants to tell him that she doesn’t deserve the way he’s looking down at her, well, she’s not going to dignify it with attention because she knows it’s the part of her that she needs to put to rest if she wants to stop worrying about what _others_ always made her believe.

 _You will be lucky to find someone who’ll have you long enough to plant a child in you_ now sounds like such a dumb notion and she’s sorry she ever believed it.

And whatever she has to do to make sure he understands that she wants _him_ , not his hand or his name or his status or _whatever else_ , she will gladly provide until he understands it. It would be just the least, given what he’s shown her in return.

“Come on,” she says, feeling her heartbeat go faster. “Come on. _Do it_. I don’t want your cock or your mouth or your fingers, I want _this_. And I won’t have anything else today.”

Maybe he can see it from the way she looks up at him, she doesn’t know, but a moment later she realizes that it might have worked because he crashes his mouth against hers while he _finally_ starts pushing his stump in deeper and then slightly back and then _deeper_ , fucking her with it _properly_ and not like he was just getting the feeling, and _finally_ she’s getting it all, and it feels even better — he feels like he belongs inside her, filling her up completely, those rough scars matching the ones she has on her face and that he’s kissing right now as he drives that arm inside her for good, and then again, and _again_ , and she clenches around him again and _again_ , her mouth finding his cheek first and his lips later, telling him that _yes_ , this is exactly what she wants and _how_ she wants it. He nods, keeps on going at it, his stump _fully_ buried inside her, scars and all, and she loses time of how long she lasts, but when she finally, _finally_ peaks a third time, it’s harder than she can ever remember it, and it’s _better_ because he’s filling _all_ of her up, and she’s sure that half of the castle has heard her screaming his name, and _she can’t care less_. Not when he’s looking down at her in wonder and she has to move up and hold him closer as his thrusts ease along with her trembling and he finally slides his stump out of her, slow, careful, and she knows that she won’t let this be the only time because it felt _good_ , but then she shakes her head and reaches for his breeches —

“Don’t say anything,” he says, sounding embarrassed.

Fine. Given that there’s a _very_ damp patch all over his crotch, she figures he didn’t need much help. Still —

“Let me anyway,” she says, and she unlaces his breeches while they switch positions — there’s not much else to do, admittedly, he _did_ come untouched and both breeches and his small clothes need a wash, but it doesn’t mean she can’t jerk him off for the last of it — he leans into her touch with a sigh, still looking at her like she’s the best thing that’s ever happened to him, and while at the beginning it made her feel inadequate, maybe now it’s starting to make her feel _good_ about this. Her fingers don’t move from his dick until he’s completely spent, and then she has to look up at him again, noticing that he’s ended up on his left side and has more or less wiped clean his stump on the sheets.

 _Fine then_. Before he can think about this again or change his mind, she reaches for his arm. She grabs his wrist, waits for him to nod before she brings it to her mouth. She considers the option, but then she just shakes her head and kisses the top of it.

The sound he makes at _that_ is almost needy, and are his eyes wet? She doesn’t know, but she doesn’t care, and he has kissed her cheek all over more times than she can count, and she _does_ like how that scar tissue feels across her lips.

So she kisses it again. And _again_. All over the top, down to the sides and across it again, not touching it with anything that’s not her lips.

When she figures her point is made, she knows they should talk, so she looks up at him again. He’s not even trying to pretend he’s not crying, so she says nothing on _that_ and wipes at his face with her free hand — she’s not letting his wrist go _just in case_.

“Now,” she says, “two things.”

“I’m listening,” he breathes, barely audible.

“Maybe three. Anyway. The first one is that I hope this was enough to show you _exactly_ how much I can’t care less about your hand or lack of, and honestly, I would do it again tomorrow.”

“You _would_?”

“You cannot begin to guess how it felt,” she says, shaking her head. “It was — Jaime, I’m honestly not lying, it was the best I’ve felt yet when — we laid together.”

“I can hear that you’re not. All right. I won’t be the one saying no. And what about two and three?”

“Two — I haven’t told you before because… I don’t even know why. I think I felt ashamed that none of that was very knightly, but — back when I was searching for Sansa on my own. I ran into Timeon and Shagwell.”

“What — _those_ Timeon and Shagwell?”

“Yes,” she nods. “I — well. They hadn’t changed, not really, and — I killed them both. I cut off Timeon’s hand before I did finish him, though.”

She can hear the moment he makes a sound in the back of his throat that’s way, way too close to the kind of he was making _before_ , except slightly different. “You —”

“I did it,” she said, “and I thought — I did it thinking about what they did to _you_. I could have killed him without doing it, I think, but I did it anyway. And Shagwell — I made him bury the other ones, then he tried to kill me, as if I hadn’t imagined, and — this is not what anyone should discuss in _these_ circumstances, but — I stabbed him until he was dead. And after, too, and I could only think about how he’d laugh at us back in the day but mostly at _you_.” She can hear that Jaime’s holding his breath. “It wasn’t… a very honorable way of killing anyone,” she finally says. “But I couldn’t see reason, I guess. And I was thinking about what they did to me, too, but — I felt worse about what they had done to _you_. I don’t even know why I’m telling you this, but I had a feeling you should know, given — given what you’ve just told me before.”

He looks at her for a moment, and she can see that his lower lip is kind of trembling as he shakes his head and inches closer to her.

“Hells,” he says, sounding like he’s about to cry _for real_ , “and I thought _I_ was being chivalrous when I punched that bastard in the face.”

“That was greatly appreciated,” she smiles back, moving closer, putting her free arm around his waist. “And the third thing,” she finally says. “I don’t know if — I mean, now that I think about it… those few times Lady Sansa tried to _cheer us up_ with dancing in the great hall, I did see you staring at the others, but you never asked. Was that because — of your sister? Or because you thought I wouldn’t like it?”

He shrugs, his eyes still staring into hers. “Both,” he says. “I mean, you looked like you would have slit your own throat before dancing in front of other people and after… _that_ time with my sister, I figured making a fool of myself wouldn’t be a good idea. Why?”

“But did you want to?”

He says nothing, waiting a bit, and then she can see his throat working up and down before he looks at her again. “Yes,” he admits, “I might have. But —”

“Then, _next time_ ,” she says, “feel free to ask.”

“But you don’t like —”

“I don’t like it because everyone else makes me feel like I don’t belong there. Jaime, for — I fell for Renly because he was the only man I ever met who didn’t make fun of me while I was dancing _in a dress_ , and it’s — probably sad, but never mind _that_. I would like it _with you_. And you don’t have to wear a fake hand to ask me, just in case you were wondering.”

“Hm,” he clears his throat, moving closer, “does that mean I should let you lead?”

“If you’d like, but whichever is good. But — I meant it. If you want it? I won’t refuse.”

He nods, opens his mouth as if to say something, but then shakes his head and a moment later he’s grasping at her shoulders and holding her so close she can barely breathe.

She returns it, her lips ghosting along his neck a moment later.

“Thank you,” he blurts a moment later, with the voice of someone who can barely put words together.

“No need to thank me,” she says, “and don’t assume this was a one time thing. Because I don’t want it to be.”

He nods against her shoulder before he moves back and kisses her all over again. Then he moves back at once. “Hells, I’m an arse.”

“What?”

“Well, you dropped that enchanting declaration before into your admittedly heartwarming attempt to convince me to stop being an idiot, I didn’t even —”

“Jaime, it’s _fine,_ I know —”

“Brienne? _I love you_ , and I don’t find it a hardship to tell you as many times as I can fucking do it since _I actually can_ and I don’t have to worry about how it would get me killed if I did, good riddance that, so how about you let me? Because I’m _entirely_ fine with that.”

“In that case,” she replies, “I won’t argue.”

He laughs just before crashing their mouths together, and she decides, as her tongue meets his and he leans into her touch when her hands go back to cradling his neck, that this went _way_ better than she had planned.

 

_Three Days Later_

 

Lady Sansa _has_ indeed decided that it’s time, again, for lifting up the mood. After all, Winterfell is well-defended and they have food for a while, and there’s nothing more they can do _for now_ except wait for the supposed dragons to come from King’s Landing before they even attempt to deal with the white walkers at large.

(They should be back when Jon Snow comes home with his new alliances, as far as Brienne knows, but she can’t worry about _that_ until he’s here.)

So Sansa has put together these dances once per week or so, and admittedly, they _do_ lift the mood up, some. Hells, this time even bloody _Stannis Baratheon_ has accepted to do it, with _Asha Greyjoy_ of all people.

(Brienne _did_ talk to the man about Renly, when she arrived here first. She’s also learned that sometimes one’s vengeance matters less than the realm’s business.)

Her brother, who is _way_ worse-equipped than either she or Jaime for dancing, is doing that as well, with Jeyne Poole — in a secluded corner where no one’s watching them, but still, if _they_ don’t care for it, certainly _she_ can get over herself. She smiles as she sees Sansa move from some northern lord whose name she doesn’t remember to Podrick, and then, just as she puts away her glass of wine, she feels someone touching her shoulder.

She turns, wrapped in her heavy cloak, and finds herself in front of Jaime. He’s not wearing white now, but he still looks impossibly handsome in his dark gray, nondescript clothing with a simple cut and no frills. He _did_ polish his boots, though. She glances down at his right arm — he’s _not_ wearing his golden hand.

 _Oh_.

“Would my lady honor me with a dance?” He asks, holding out his left.

She smiles, then stands up from her chair and unlaces her cloak, letting it fall on it. Jaime’s eyes grow slightly wider when he notices what she’s worn.

She had left that blue dress in King’s Landing, but she remembered it well enough and asked one of the maids to help her put together a new one in the last few days — she helped her and a few others as much as she could even if her sewing is terrible, and now she’s wearing a near-perfect copy of it. She can feel others staring at her and she can hear someone whispering under their breath, _is she wearing female garb now_?

Once, it would have been enough to make her think back on it.

 _Today_ , though, it’s not. She slips her hand inside Jaime’s, not looking at anyone else.

“Ser, nothing would make me happier,” she replies, not bothering to keep her voice down.

It’s worth if just for the way he smiles at her after, like someone who’s just been handed everything he could have wanted at once. She’s fairly sure she’s mirroring it, anyway.

He lets her lead, and he definitely likes it way more than she does, but —

“I think I could get used to this,” she tells him under her breath. He leans in to kiss her softly before his chin moves over her shoulder.

“Me, too,” he says, and he sounds like he wholly meant it.

Good, because so does she.

 

 

End.


End file.
